THE BLUE SOCKS;

OR,

COUNT THE COST.

[BY]

[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]

PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET. ————————— NEW YORK: 599 BROADWAY.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————— Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by the AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

CONTENTS. ——————

CHAPTER I.

GREAT BEGINNINGS

CHAPTER II.

SELF-DENIAL

CHAPTER III.

PROGRESS

CHAPTER IV.

STORIES

CHAPTER V.

ELSIE'S TROUBLES

CHAPTER VI.

THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER

CHAPTER VII.

MADAM WENTWORTH

CHAPTER VIII.

THE TEA-PARTY

CHAPTER IX.

MINNY'S EXCUSES

CHAPTER X.

CONCLUSION

THE BLUE SOCKS. —————————

CHAPTER I.

GREAT BEGINNINGS.

"OH, mother! Will you please give me some money, this minute? I want to go right down and get some yarn, so that I can begin to-night. And, mother, will you show me how to set it up?"

This was said by a very pretty little girl, about twelve years old. She had, apparently, just come in from school, for she still wore her hat and coat, while her satchel of books lay on the floor by her side, and her luncheon-basket dangled from her hand. Her mother sat on the sofa, busily engaged in cutting out animals and birds in paper for the amusement of another child, a sickly, deformed little creature, about two years younger than Henrietta.

Mrs. Laurens delayed her answer for a moment, as she carefully shaped the bill of the parrot then under her hand; and Henrietta stamped her little foot impatiently.

"Say, mother, won't you?"

"Won't I do what, Hetty? I should like to know the whole story, before I give my consent. You have not told me why you want yarn, nor what it is you want me to set up. It would really save a good deal of my time and yours, if you would learn always to begin at the beginning of a story."

Hetty coloured a little.

"Well, mother, I will. The girls at school are all going to knit socks for the soldiers. Miss Armitage talked to us about it this afternoon, and we are all going to knit one pair."

"What! Fifty girls all going to knit one pair of socks! What a curious pair it will be!"

"Mother, I do wish you wouldn't laugh when I am in earnest. Of course I mean that we are each going to knit one pair before Christmas—that will be fifty pairs of socks—only think, mother, fifty pairs! But I mean to knit two or three pairs myself, and so does Minny Granger. And, mother, only think! Elsie Probert would not promise to knit any! She said she must think about it, and ask her mother, because she did not know whether she should find time. I guess I would find time, if I had to sit up all night; and so I told her: wouldn't you, mother? I shall never like Elsie again, if she is not willing to work for the poor soldiers."

"Why, my child, you are coming to conclusions very hastily, as usual. Elsie did not say that she was not willing: she said she must think about it, and ask her mother—which was quite right. Elsie has more to do at home than either you or Minny Granger."

"Yes, I know that, because they keep only one servant; and I don't believe she is a very good one, either, for Mrs. Probert and Elsie work a great deal themselves. And, mother, Minny says that on washing-days, Mrs. Probert gets the dinner herself, for she has seen her going in and out of the kitchen-door, and even carrying kettles. Minny says she should think Mr. Probert would send his daughter to a public school, and not to a select school like Miss Armitage's, where only girls of the first families go—and such an expensive school, besides. You know he is only a book-keeper."

"You speak very improperly, my daughter," said Mrs. Laurens, with more severity than was at all common with her. "I shall forbid your having any thing to do with Minny, if she fills your head with such ideas. What business is it of hers or yours what Mrs. Probert does on washing-days or other days? She is a cultivated and lady-like woman, and Elsie is one of the sweetest little girls I know. Let me hear no more of such gossip."

Hetty coloured and pouted; but she was too strongly bent upon gaining her point to indulge in a fit of temper just then.

"Well, but, mother, about the yarn? May I go and get some, and begin to-night?"

"Do you think you would finish a pair of socks, if you began them, Hetty?"

"Why, yes, mother, of course. Didn't I tell you I meant to knit two or three pairs?"

"I know you did, my daughter; but 'saying' is one thing, and 'doing' another. However, I am willing you should make the trial, on two or three conditions."

"I hate conditions," said Hetty, aside, and in a low voice.

"On two or three conditions," continued her mother. "First, you shall knit them all yourself."

"Of course! I wouldn't have any one else touch them for the world!"

"Secondly, you shall not neglect your practising, nor any other of your ordinary duties.

"Thirdly, you shall go and put away all your school-things neatly, and then wait patiently till Cecy has had her luncheon and Peter is ready to carry her out. Then I will go down with you and buy the yarn."

"Why can't I go and buy it now, mother?"

"Because, my dear, you know nothing about yarn, and you might get what was very unsuitable to the purpose. Now begin by putting away your books, dress yourself neatly, and mend that hole in your glove."

Hetty pouted, and murmured something to herself; but she saw that her mother was decided, and, gathering up her things, she withdrew to her own room.

Little Cecy's large gray eyes had wandered wonderingly from her mother's face to her sister's during this dialogue, but she had not said a word. Now, however, that Hetty was out of the way, she asked, in her slow, hesitating manner,—

"What does Hetty mean, mother?"

"Hetty wants to knit some warm socks for the soldiers, my dear. You know winter is coming soon, and the poor soldiers' feet will be very cold, unless they have warm woollen stockings to wear under their boots: so a great many ladies are knitting socks to send them. You recollect I told you that all the soldiers were going to the South to fight the rebels. Don't you remember how Cousin Charles came to bid you good-by and show you his uniform and sword?"

"I remember," said Cecy. "But, mother, if the rebels want to go away and have a country by themselves, why don't they let them? It would be a great deal less trouble."

"Cecy," said her mother, "do you remember when we were down on the beach last summer, how little Cousin Harry wanted to sit out on the rock and watch the ships?"

"Oh, yes; and aunt would not let him. She called him, and he would not come, and when she went to lead him away, he lay down on the sand and kicked it up and screamed. Then aunt sent for Peter to take him up in his arms and carry him in."

"Why did not aunt let Harry stay out on the rock as long as he pleased? It would have been a great deal less trouble."

Cecy opened her eyes wide. "Why, mother, he would have been drowned, because the waves came up all over the rock that day. We could hardly see where it was. It was one of the days when the water came up high."

"Well, Cecy, it would be a great deal less trouble 'at first' to let the rebels have their own way, but by-and-by it would cause a great deal more, not only to us, but also to them, and wise people think it would end in our being entirely ruined. So the Government wishes to bring them to obedience, just as Aunt Mary did Harry. That is what the soldiers have gone for. Do you understand now?"

"Yes, mother, I think I do." Cecy was silent for a few minutes, and then sighed deeply.

"What makes you sigh, dear?" asked her mother.

"I was thinking, mother, how much I wished I could do something for the soldiers."

"So do I, my love; but I am afraid you could not knit. You know you tried to sew last summer, and it made your poor shoulder ache sadly."

"I know it, mother." And Cecy sighed again, and remained silent a while longer.

Then, as a new thought struck her, she brightened up a little.

"Mother," she said, in a low voice, "will you teach me a prayer to say for the soldiers, as well as for Uncle David and Cousin Charles?"

"Yes, my dear child," replied her mother, kissing her tenderly.

"That will be helping a little, won't it, mother?"

"A great deal, Cecy. No one can tell how much good it will do. Now you must have your luncheon, and then, as it is such a fine day, Peter shall take you out for a good, long walk, while I go with Hetty to buy the yarn."

Mrs. Laurens was a widow, and Henrietta and Cecelia, or Hetty and Cecy, as they were more commonly called, were her only children. She had married early in life, had abundance of this world's goods, her children were bright and healthy, and her husband the kindest of men. For six years she had lived in an earthly paradise, but then came a dark cloud.

Mr. Laurens was in the habit of spending every summer in the country or on the sea-shore. One afternoon he had been out with his wife, to try a horse which he had just purchased. The animal, though spirited, seemed exceedingly well broken, and, as they returned, Mr. Laurens, seeing Cecy, then two years old, standing on the steps with her nurse, said, gayly,—

"Now Cecy shall have a ride all alone with father, like a grown-up woman."

Cecy of course was delighted. Mrs. Laurens had perfect confidence in her husband's driving, and saw them set out without fear, while she walked to a neighbour's to bring home Henrietta, who had keen spending the day with a little playmate. On her return, she was met with the terrible news that the horse had run away and overset the chaise, and that her husband and child were even then being brought home in a dying condition. Mr. Laurens was dead before he reached the house, and it was some hours before Cecy gave any but the faintest signs of life.

At last, however, and by slow degrees, she revived. But it was not till many days afterwards that the whole of the sad story was known, and it was discovered that the little girl's spine was so injured that she must remain a cripple for life. For a long time it was feared that the shock had completely destroyed her mind, but, under her mother's unremitting care and watchfulness, she recovered. She was slow in thinking or speaking, and seldom talked much, except to her mother and one other person. She was very fond of her sister, and in general liked to be with her, but Henrietta was by nature hasty and impetuous, and found it hard to tone down her spirits to poor Cecy's minor key; and truth compels me to say that she was not seldom impatient with the poor child, for not being able to think as fast as herself. Then Cecy would cry, and bring on one of her fits of nervous exhaustion, and there was an end of all pleasure, or even comfort, for the day.

Our readers must not infer from what we have said that Hetty was altogether a bad child. She was warmhearted and affectionate, full of good impulses, and even conscientious. That is to say, when convinced that she had done wrong, she was very sorry, and made many good resolutions for the future, which she kept very well so long as she had no particular temptation to break them. Her mother was necessarily so much taken up with poor, suffering, helpless Cecy that she was not able to give as much time as she could have wished to Hetty; but she did the best she could for her, in sending her to an excellent school, and in checking her graver faults as they appeared.

Elsie Probert had always been Hetty's most particular school-friend. They had studied together, walked together, dressed their dolls together, and sat in the same class in Sunday-school, ever since they were three years old. Elsie fully believed Hetty to be almost perfection, and Hetty entertained the same opinion of Elsie. But of late, a cloud had come between these two friends,—a cloud small at first, but which grew larger and thicker every day.

A new scholar had come to Miss Armitage's school, in the person of Minny Granger. Minny's father was immensely rich, and she was an only child,—the undoubted heiress of three or four hundred thousand dollars at the very least. Her mother was a weak-minded, half-educated woman, very proud of her husband's wealth, her diamonds, her own beauty and that of her daughters, and last, not least, of that mysterious something called a social position. She found it hard to believe that a woman who kept only one servant or perhaps none at all, whose husband was a clerk or a retail grocer, who opened the door herself to visitors, or even, as in Mrs. Probert's case, cooked her husband's dinner upon occasion, could be as much a lady in feeling and taste as herself; and it may be doubted whether she did not in her heart consider mechanics and day-labourers as of a different and inferior species.

Minny had been brought up with the same ideas. She had also been indulged in an almost unlimited amount of pocket-money, which she spent with reckless profusion. The girls were daily amazed at the amount of chocolate cream-drops, cocoanut-cakes and caramels which she brought to school with her luncheon, and which—to do her justice—she was always ready to share. Moreover, she had vast stores of the finest stationery, which she gave away as readily as she did her eatables, and a whole library of story-books, which she was always ready to lend: so it was no wonder that she soon found herself surrounded with a large party of devoted adherents.

Of these Elsie had not been one. She had never quite liked Minny from the first. There was something in almost every sentence she uttered, which grated on Elsie's lady-like sensibilities, and this alone would have prevented their becoming intimate. But after a time, other traits began to show themselves, which turned indifference into positive dislike and distrust. Elsie was not jealous nor suspicious in her nature, but she could not help seeing that Minny was greedy, not only of sweetmeats and confectionery, but also of applause and admiration, and that she was by no means scrupulous in her methods of obtaining what she desired. She accepted help in her drawings and her French exercises from those more skilful than herself, did not hesitate to look into her book at recitation, if she were sure of not being observed, and, as Elsie strongly suspected, drew her compositions from some other source than her own brain. She was rude and overbearing in her manners to little girls and those whom she fancied not quite her equals. And Elsie noticed that, though she was very ready to give

away what she had in more abundance than she could possibly use, she never made the slightest sacrifice of her own wishes or comfort to the convenience of others.

Hetty, however, saw none of these defects. Dazzled by Minny's beauty, and always fond of novelty, she soon plunged into the most devoted and exclusive friendship with the newcomer. Hetty and Minny walked together to and from school, played together at recess, and exchanged confidential little notes and mysteriously significant looks at all times; and Elsie found herself gradually but decidedly "left out." Hetty, indeed, would willingly have included her at first, but Minny demurred. She saw that she had failed to influence Elsie as she had influenced Hetty. Conscious that all she did would not bear inspection, she fancied that Elsie watched her, and, as she told Hetty, she had no idea of being intimate with everybody's daughters because she happened to go to school with them. She did not see, for her part, how such a girl as Elsie came to be there at all. The public school was the place for her, and, if her mother had any sense, she would send her there.

Elsie really loved Hetty dearly, and of course she could not see without pain the direction things were taking. At first she accused herself of jealousy and suspicion; but as days passed, it became more and more clear that she had not only ceased to be necessary to Henrietta, but that she could not join in the conversations and walks of the two girls without casting a damper upon their intercourse, and even being treated decidedly as an intruder by at least one of the pair.

Elsie was gentle and loving by nature, but she was also self-respecting and somewhat proud, and she could not help being deeply grieved at seeing preferred to herself a girl who was her inferior in every thing but wealth and beauty.

She withdrew herself as far as possible from Minny's society, and waited, hoping that Hetty's eyes would, after a while, be opened to the character of her new friend, and that then she would return to her old one. So far this hope had not been fulfilled. Hetty and Minny grew more and more intimate every day. It was plain that Hetty was coming to regard outside show as of more importance than any thing else; and Elsie could not help fancying that her friend was ashamed of her economical dress and plain straw hat, and would rather not be seen in the street with her. Such was the state of things at the commencement of our story.

As soon as Mrs. Laurens had seen Cecy duly wrapped up and deposited in Peter's sturdy arms for her promenade, she put on her own bonnet, and accompanied Hetty to look for some yarn. Hetty was all impatience, and would have taken the first that presented itself, but Mrs. Laurens persisted in her search till she found some that was both strong enough to wear well and soft enough to be agreeable to the feet. Hetty was rather dissatisfied that her mother bought only one skein.

"This will do for a beginning, my love," said Mrs. Laurens, smiling. "There is no fear that all the yarn in town will be used up. If you finish one pair in season, I shall think you do very well."

Suitable needles being procured, they returned home. Hetty, as usual, was all eagerness to begin, and could hardly wait to put away her bonnet.

"Are all your lessons learned for to-morrow?" asked her mother.

"Yes, mother,—no mother,—not quite. All but a little Roman history; and that is so easy, I can learn it before I go to school in the morning."

Her mother decided, however, that the lessons must be learned before the knitting was touched. Hetty pouted, and almost cried, but Mrs. Laurens was firm; and she took her book not a little comforted by seeing her mother preparing to wind the yarn and set up the work.

Meantime Peter was slowly walking up and down with Cecy in his arms. He was a very large, almost gigantic, coloured man, as black as ebony, who had been in Mr. Laurens's employ for many years, first as porter and warehouseman, and afterwards as coachman and gardener. It had been decided by the physicians that Cecy must spend as much time as possible in the open air; but there seemed some difficulty in bringing this about,—as she could not bear the motion even of the easiest carriage. It was at last discovered that Peter had the knack of adapting his strong arms to her weak back, so that Cecy declared she lay as comfortably as in her cradle, and many an hour of comparative ease and pleasure did the poor child owe to this discovery. Peter was always at her service, at any hour of the day or night: he was never tired and never impatient. Although, of course, not much educated, he had a strong, sensible mind, and a fervent and enlightened religious faith. Cecy was always sure that he would understand her, slow as the right

word might be in coming; and she talked to him more than to any person in the world, except her mother.

"Peter," said she, as they pursued their walk, "Hetty is going to knit some socks for the soldiers."

"That will be very nice, if she only gets 'em done before the war is over," replied Peter, smiling.